A pile of wonder

By Richard Fortey

In the Chiltern Hills, 40 miles west of London, the morning mists disperse slowly in the still-damp days of early summer. But that does not deter the rider who daily trots her horse along the tracks that run through the stately beech woods. Silvery, undivided trunks rise like columns lining the nave of a natural cathedral. Wisps weave through them.

The bluebells that carpeted the woodland floor a week ago are already fading to a blowsy hue, and within a month will have vanished completely until next spring. The leaves on the beech trees are freshly unfurled, so that the roof of the woodland is still a bright yellowish-green. As the summer days lengthen, the leaves will darken, eventually capturing nearly all the sunlight until the forest floor becomes dark and uncongenial for flowers, and then home only to a handful of tough ferns. But for just a few weeks, a subtle and penetrative illumination will encourage the horsewoman on her way.